


Just a Scratch

by Darling_Jack



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Angst, Animal Attack, Arthur's Horse - Freeform, Blood, Enemies to Friends, Fever, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-24
Updated: 2020-12-01
Packaged: 2021-03-09 19:48:53
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,734
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27701620
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Darling_Jack/pseuds/Darling_Jack
Summary: Dutch hated Boadicea from day one.
Relationships: Arthur Morgan & Dutch van der Linde
Comments: 27
Kudos: 101





	1. Chapter 1

Dutch hated Arthur’s horse. 

Perhaps hate is a strong word for a man to feel for an animal, but lord did he _hate_ that horse. 

He liked his last horse just fine. She was a pretty little thing, a beautiful paint, gentle as anything. Regal, gentle, and noble, she was everything a horse should’ve been, despite her short tenure. 

But this one? This _thing_ Arthur found and dragged back like a guilty child hiding a mangy stray? This thing was a nightmare, all piss, vinegar, and teeth. 

For starters, perhaps, she was the ugliest horse Dutch had seen in a very long while, with thick scars along her legs and nose, and bald patches where her fur had rubbed off while stuck in that second-rate stable. Her coat was dull and flea bitten, a murky dappled gray that reminded Dutch of a dead fish. Her ribs stuck out in awful ways. All of this could be forgiven, of course, were the horse good-natured; a stoic, long-suffering beast with a gentle soul. She wasn’t. 

She’d stolen his hat when he walked past the stable yards, and Arthur was smitten almost immediately. Before nightfall, he’d returned with the nag in tow, having stolen her from under the stable hand’s nose. When he proudly showed his spoils to those loitering around camp, Dutch saw every single person grimace at the sight. Even John wrinkled his nose and asked what was wrong with her, while Annabelle kept him at a safe distance. 

The very first thing that beast did when she was brought into camp, tethered to the spare morgan Arthur had been riding, was to snap at Dutch’s outstretched hand, ears pinned back and eyes wild with rage. He’d honestly, in those first few moments, felt a pang of sorrow and pity for the creature. The second thing she did was to kick Arthur in the chest as soon as his attention had turned. Even as Arthur wheezed, trying to regain his breath and soothe what were probably broken ribs, he still cooed at the damn thing and dug peppermints from his pockets. 

Arthur named her “Boadicea”, clearly an attempt to win Dutch’s favor; a callback from the long days he’d spent teaching the boy about world history all those years ago. Typically, though, in a sickly sweet way that only further cemented Dutch’s dislike for the animal, Arthur called her Darlin’. Dutch called her “Arthur’s Bastard Horse”. Most folks called her Bo. 

“You named it? You’re… keeping it,” Dutch had said with a barely suppressed frown as Arthur writhed in the mud, plastered with the beaming grin of a six year old who found a particularly neat puddle just before Sunday church.

“Aw, she just needs a little love is all!” Arthur had assured him, one he had gathered enough breath to speak. 

And sure, Arthur’s care and attention seemed to make a difference. Slowly, she gained back the weight she had lost while locked in that stable, earning defined muscle and heft. Her coat shone in the sunshine, still that cloudy gray but at least some of the missing patches had grown in. Arthur spent hours on the thing, counting down the days until he could try riding her all the while cutting the mats out of her tail and combing her mane and dodging nasty bites and viscous kicks— because Boadicea was perhaps the most ill-tempered horse Dutch had ever seen.

What’s worse was that Bo was big— and she knew it. She was more than happy to throw her weight around. It got to the point where she had to be kept far from the other horses, lest she bully them out of their food and push them aside when folks came by with treats. When John tried to feed the beast one morning while Arthur was out on a job, still unable to ride her, she kicked up such a fuss that she ripped a hitching post from the ground and kicked down another. In her fit, she spooked three of the other horses into bolting, which Arthur had to spend most of the night tracking down. Still, though, he sweetly ran his fingers through her mane, kept obsessively tangle-free, and whispered praise and adoration. Dutch was careful to keep his own horse, Duke, as far from her reign of terror as possible, but the camp was only so big.

He made a point of offering Duke sugar cubes and peppermints whenever Boadicea was eyeing him, while never tossing so much as a slice of apple in her direction. He relished the waves of anger that rolled off of her. Petty? Maybe. 

If Arthur saw, he’d surely thrown a fit, just as foul tempered these days as his bastard horse. 

In all fairness, Bo hated Dutch just as much as he did her. He returned one evening, tired and chilled from the pounding rain, to discover the monster had pulled free and bitten holes into the canvas of his tent after she ransacked the small sack of sweets he kept for Duke. He found her standing over Arthur, her head shoved into his tent while he drew, who merely laughed and swore she didn’t mean anything by it. But Dutch knew better. For all of Bo’s faults— and lord, were there a lot of those— the most egregious was that she was _smart_. 

If he took it out on Arthur and made him take watch in the middle of the night for a few days, well, who could blame him. 

Boadicea wasn’t particularly fond of Arthur either. Despite the obscene amount of love and care he put into the horse she tormented him worse of all, ripping into his saddle bags while he wasn’t looking, pulling on his hair, and generally bullying the man unless he had a treat in his hand. How he managed to ride her without getting thrown was a mystery. Even after she trampled his tent, pounding it into the mud with her hooves, and threw his boots into the lake while he tried to rebuild, he still kissed her on the nose and told her how much he adored her. The most she got by way of a reprimand was a very gentle, lighthearted correction. Meanwhile, Dutch looked at the thing wrong and Arthur jumped down his throat. 

Honestly, it was nauseating. 

Dutch hated that horse, but he managed to put all of that aside when Arthur didn’t come home. 

Arthur, all of twenty-four, had gone out hunting without anyone noticing. As soon as he was able to ride her, he and Bo were gone more often than not, eager to shrug off his duties and duck the watchful eyes of John, who had become Arthur’s shadow over the past months.He’d been doing that a lot these days; escaping with Boadicea when Dutch’s back was turned. Hosea was livid. Dutch hadn’t minded.

Not until this exact moment.

“-utch!” Hosea startled him from his thoughts, gently shaking his shoulder. He looked so… old. Weathered. Tired. Like the past years had weighed upon him all at once. His shirt was soaked with blood and worse, sleeves rolled to his elbows as if that might save the garment.

“I’m— Sorry, friend. Is… Do you think—”

“He…” Hosea swallowed thickly, face tugged into a quivering frown, “He’s alive. I— We did all we could. Right now, he just needs rest. He’s... he’s lucky to have made it back.”

Dutch nodded, absently, scrubbing a hand across his face. He felt absolutely useless in a way he hadn’t in a long time. Guilty. Scared. Overwhelmed by his own failure to protect his son and his stupidity at letting the boy go off alone. His mind raced, drowning him in a thousand thoughts, each crueler than the last, punctuated by concerned whispers and muffled sobs from John, Annabelle, and Bessie. 

A cougar, Hosea had explained, judging by the deep gashes carved into Arthur’s flesh and the punctures in his arm, probably got the drop on him. It’s a wonder the boy had survived as long as he had; given the swelling and the heavy fever, Hosea had guessed it had been a day at least. _Surprising he hadn’t been wolf feed_ , Hosea added, though the levity was lost almost immediately. 

It wasn’t all that surprising, though, with that beast lingering over him the way she was. 

Dutch had taken Duke and set out after Arthur muttering curses all the while; he figured the boy had gone deep into the nearest thicket to drink as he was so keen to do these days.

He tracked Arthur through the night and into the early morning, each mile only stoking his anger further, hotter. 

All of that anger melted off when he found him.

Arthur was collapsed against a tree, breathing ragged and shallow, soaked thoroughly in his own blood. He had managed to bandage himself; Dutch could tell that much. Bo stood over him, her own chest heaving in time with his. Mere feet away, a flattened cougar, recognizably only by its tawny hide, smeared and thick with its own viscera. The sharp sting of copper sat heavy in Dutch’s lungs as he rushed to his boy’s side, only to be stopped dead in his tracks. 

Boadicea huffed and stomped, eyes wild, backed as close as she could get to her man without crushing him. 

“Fucking christ—” Dutch yelped as she snapped at him, digging her hooves into the grass. Blood matted her hide as well. Her ears pinned back.

A groan, a whimper; Arthur peeled his eyes open, slowly, painfully.

“Bo?” he whispered, hardly audible over the fuss his horse was kicking up, but Dutch’s stomach sank anyways as Arthur slipped away again. 

Dutch raised his hands, heart thundering, trying to soothe the frantic beast, but his attempt to draw any closer was met with a vicious kick, one that only barely glanced across his chest. His thoughts fell to his Schofield; if she wouldn’t move, he’d have to make her. 

His thoughts turned to Arthur, and his sidearm stayed where it was. 

“Easy, girl,” he soothed, “I— I gotta get to your man, he’s hurting, you gotta let me—”

She reared at that, watching Dutch warily.

“Arthur’s hurt, I’ve got to—” to what, he couldn’t say. Arthur might not make it back to town, much less back to camp, so he settled on, “I need to help him, you’ve got to work with me.”

Clearly his words weren’t quite so useless. Bo didn’t back up, not a single step, but allowed Dutch to fall to Arthur’s side, hands working fruitlessly to rouse the boy from his fever-addled sleep. With every passing second, Arthur’s wounds only continued to ooze and seep through the bandages. With every passing second, Arthur slipped further and further into himself. 

And Dutch hated Arthur’s horse. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey y'all! Just a short little multi-chapter I threw together! ♡
> 
> I like to think that Bo was a firecracker; gentle, but stubborn and needy. Perfect for Arthur, who simply cannot get enough of his horse's attention! 
> 
> Plus I just like writing about horses.... ♡
> 
> Hope you all like this one! Stay safe, kiddos! ♡♡♡


	2. Chapter 2

He grit his teeth, wiped the wetness from his cheeks, and pushed himself out of his tent. Almost mechanically, automatically, without thought, he found himself at Duke’s side, hoping to, at least somewhat, soothe his woes. The animal always had a way of comforting him; of loving him dearly regardless. What's more, Duke was kept away from Arthur’s tent, far from the stench of sweat and infection that rolled off of him in waves and away from Arthur’s fevered cries. 

Duke was happy to see him, of course, blissfully unaware of what hell had unfolded. Beautiful, his coat shimmering in the moonlight, and watchful; he nickered gently as Dutch approached. Dutch stroked the beast’s neck, cooing at him and resting his forehead against his hide. He drew in a deep breath, squeezing his eyes shut.

A thump. 

He opened them again, eyes struggling against the darkness. Boadicea kicked again with another thump, the pail of water left for her knocked over and kicked away. She was hard to see in the dim light, blending into the dapples of moonlight, but they had tied her not far off. She lay on her side, eyes wild, hooves flailing for purchase. Bo pulled on her tether, blood weeping from several cuts and gashes along her hide. Too much blood, Dutch noted grimly. Her mouth was crusted with froth and her chest heaved in a way Dutch only ever saw minutes before a horse died. Her saddle was still strapped onto her back. Yet she struggled, still bit at anyone who came too close, still tried— and failed— to get loose, to stand, to get to Arthur.

Her eyes widened at the sight of Dutch. She snorted again, baring her teeth. Again, she tried to break loose with a pitiable cry. Again, she failed.

Dutch’s chest burned with an unplaceable sorrow. Even from here, he could see the patches of blood that stuck to her coat and in her mane— some of it hers, some of it undoubtedly Arthur’s, and some of it belonging to the cougar that had nearly taken their boy. He patted Duke once more before he took a step towards the downed monster. She struggled again to stand, huffing at him with her ears pinned.

Dutch cast a mournful look back at Arthur’s tent, still lit with every lantern they could find, still buzzing with concern, even as the nightly slowly burned into day.

“Hey now…” he took another step, keeping his voice low, “Hey, girl… We’re okay…”

Much to Dutch’s surprise, she stilled. Her eyes never left him, but at least she calmed somewhat. Dutch took that as a win; any other day, with any other horse, he might have celebrated. The closer he got, though, the more he realized what bad shape she was in. 

“Listen,” he held up his hands in a show of surrender. She eyed him warily, nostrils flared, “I know... I know you’re worried about him. I’m worried about him too, but we can’t go see him right now. I— we can’t. But you— You did so good, girl. I know he’d be upset if you keeled over while he was laid up.”

Boadicea let her head drop back to the dirt. Dutch slowly, obviously, reached into his pocket, pulling out a sugar cube. Not trusting her anywhere near his fingers, Dutch tossed it at her. With a gentleness unseen in this beast before, she plucked the treat from the grass; her eyes left Dutch and instead fell on Arthur’s tent. 

Dutch took another step, and another. Her ears pinned, but other than that she didn’t move as he drew in close and laid a hand on her chest. Her heart thundered beneath his hand. 

“I don’t like this any more than you do, but I’m afraid neither of us have any choice.”

Running his hand along her side, he slowly undid the straps of the saddle, letting it fall away from her. She was caked with sweat and dirt and soaked with blood, but goddamnit, if Dutch had anything to say about it, she’d live. 

“See there? Just a scratch… You stay here,” he whispered, eyeing a particularly nasty gash on her neck, “I’ll be right back.”

Dutch retreated, returning with his arms full with a bucket of water, some rags, and a sewing needle. 

When he was done, the sun was just barely peeking over the horizon, dying the sky orange and pink, and Boadicea was able to sit up, the worst of her wounds stitched closed— as Dutch could do with her grumbling and flinching away from him, clearly unhappy with the situation, he did. 

Dutch hissed curses all the while, every time she nipped at his hands or twitched; damn horse, too stupid to let herself be helped, too nasty to sit quietly. But now, as morning broke, he admired his work with a grin. He’d even managed to get her to drink. 

“You ain’t so tough, now are you?” he hummed, taking a few steps back as she tried again to sit up.

When Grimshaw showed up with something warm and mashed, something she made for Arthur first and Bo second, she scared the hell out of Dutch.

“I was just making sure she was still breathing,” Dutch barked, “There will be hell to pay if Arthur were to wake up without his awful horse.”

“... Sure, Dutch. Figured somethin easy might do her some good.”

“Hell if I care, just get her fed”.

Dutch turned on his heels, trying to ignore the way Bo nickered as he left. 

Days passed, each easier than the last. Dutch would tend to Boadicea when no one was looking, claiming he was checking in on Duke, and Bo slowly grew used to his presence. By the third day, she was standing more often than not and Dutch had managed to work most of the blood out of her coat. By the fifth, she was eating her fill, her wounds had scabbed over, and Dutch had worked the knots out of her mane. She still refused to let others near, and still kicked up a fuss when Dutch approached, but he felt as though they had reached an understanding.

Arthur’s recovery was progressing a lot more slowly; he hadn’t woken up since his return, and still burned with fever. Hosea made sure there was someone sitting by him at all times, cooling his forehead with damp rags and replacing his bandages as they soaked through with blood. Whatever time he didn’t spend giving and writing half-hearted speeches to their small family, Dutch spent in his tent, pretending Arthur wasn’t slowly dying not ten feet away. He didn’t sleep. Anxiety ate at him. The only time he felt in control, or effective, or helpful, or like he wasn’t a fucking failure let his son wander off to die without noticing, was when he tended to Bo. God, if it ever got back to Arthur how much time Dutch had spent with the monster, he’d never hear the end of it.

“Good morning, Dutch,” Hosea called, softly, as he pushed into Dutch’s tent, coffee in hand. He, too, bore dark circles under his eyes. 

“Hosea,” Dutch greeted, pretending to read, “How is everyone?”

_ Arthur, _ he wanted to say, _ how is Arthur. _

“Quiet, but we’re getting there. Arthur’s still asleep. Finally got John to sleep in his own bed, too. You... haven’t visited him yet, have you?” 

Dutch clenched his jaw. He glued his eyes to the page, unwilling to look at Hosea.

“I… haven’t found the time yet.”

“Right,” Hosea frowned, drawing in a slow breath. He sat next to Dutch, their combined weight making the cot creak under them, “Boadicea’s doing well”.

A page turn. “Is that so?”

“Sure, she’s starting to get her spirit back. He’d be happy to see her so well cared for,” Hosea cast a sideways look at Dutch, eyebrows raised slightly; knowing. 

Dutch hummed, feigning disinterest as those words weighed upon him. His heart squeezed, fuzzy and warm. 

“Someone needs to work her though; I was going to do it myself, but I thought I ought to ask you first, see if maybe you could find the time to take her out.”

“Me? Why?”

“Well, you broke Duke didn’t you? Equally as mean, equally as loyal… Bo has him beat in size, though. I know you dislike her, so if you think you can’t handle it—“

Dutch pushed to his feet, closing the book beside him. He didn’t bother marking his place; he wasn’t reading anyways. “I’ll try, but if that thing throws me I’m turning her into a coat.”

“Sure, sure,” Hosea added with a weary smile as he stood, following Dutch out, “So long as she doesn’t kick your head in, I’m sure it’ll be fine. Want me to tag along?”

Dutch rolled his eyes, grabbing a satchel of sugar cubes as he left, “You get some rest. I can handle a horse.”

He’d never considered trying to ride her. In fact, Dutch found himself dreading the drastic departure from the routine they’d fallen into. Boadicea stood in the clearing, happily nibbling on a patch of grass, her tether pulled as far as it could go towards Arthur’s tent. 

Upon seeing Dutch, her ears flickered forwards. She tossed her head, not daring to take a step further from Arthur, but she stopped pulling quite so hard. 

Her tack lay in a pile nearby, forgotten in the chaos of the last few weeks. With a show of nonchalance, so expertly put-on that even Hosea would be proud, Dutch went about the menial process of saddling a horse that only barely wanted to be touched. 

Dutch checked the straps of Arthur’s saddle once more, hardly willing to take any chances. Happy with his work, he whispered quiet assurances to Bo before swinging into the saddle. 

“Okay,” he said, frowning to himself. Bo pinned her ears back, not in anger or distrust, but rather in attention. She tossed her head and dug her hooves, but otherwise didn’t move. 

“Let’s go, then,” he urged her on, directing her to the road nearest to their small camp. She danced underneath him, clearly unhappy with the change in rider, but followed nonetheless. He stopped her again once they reached the main thoroughfare.

“I know I ain’t your man, but you’ve gotta be all pent up… How about this:” Dutch said, feeling a fool. Here was a grown man talking to a horse; what a sight he must’ve been, “You don’t buck me off, I’ll let you work all of that out on your terms. You understand me? Fast or slow as you please. So long as I stay on your back, you can do as you’d like. Deal?”

Bo snorted under him, and for a moment Dutch was impressed; Duke would have taken off by now, especially having gone so long without a good run. 

As soon as he offered a little encouragement though, Bo dug in, taking off with ease and surging forwards underneath Dutch. She was damned fast, weaving between trees, winding along with the road with unmatched confidence. Dutch, though, never felt out of control. Every small correction or nudge towards a certain direction was heard and met with an appropriate response. They rode like that for a while until again her breath thundered beneath him and her heart pounded like far-off drums.

“You are some kinda horse. I can see why Arthur kept you around…” he praised, running his fingers through her mane like he’d seen Arthur do. She melted into the touch. If Dutch melted a little, too, who could blame him?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Y'all know those videos of dads who don't want dogs, and then their family gets a dog and the dad falls in love with the little thing? That's Dutch. 
> 
> Also the dogs that hate people until someone gives them a treat? Bo.
> 
> Quite a pair they make.
> 
> ♡♡♡


	3. Chapter 3

Then Arthur woke up. 

At first, it was fleeting, like a song heard in passing that you couldn’t quite make out. As time wore on, he woke up with more frequency, and the vigil at his side was no longer a position of mourning. Soon enough, nearly two weeks after his return, Arthur was able to hold short, mostly-coherent conversations. He asked about Dutch, and he asked about Bo, and he could almost remember those conversations when he woke up next. Hearing this, and feeling the way his stomach sank at the realization, Dutch came to a solemn resolution. 

In the dead of night, Dutch grabbed Boadicea’s reins, leading her around the edge of camp quietly, hoping no one would see. 

She nickered, tossing her head. He shushed her with a hand on her nose as Arthur’s tent drew nearer. They pushed past the canvas flap. Dutch slipped inside quickly, drawing the flap mostly shut behind him, Bo’s reins in his hand. A small lantern lit the area, but Arthur slept soundly. Hosea sat at Arthur’s bedside, flipping through a book. 

He quirked an eyebrow at Dutch, smiling softly when Bo pushed her head into the tent as well.

“Don’t say a word,” Dutch warned, “You didn’t see a thing.”

Hosea grinned, turning his attention back to his reading as Bo nuzzled Arthur’s neck, sniffing at his face and pushing her nose into his warm skin. She nibbled at his hair as he began to stir. 

“Always knew you was a softy,” Hosea mused, unable to suppress the smile that melted across his face. 

Dutch pulled a stool next to him, taking Arthur’s hand in his own without a second thought, “Oh, hush. He was fixing to trample the whole camp if she didn’t see her boy.”

“I think maybe she weren’t the only one.”

Arthur cracked open an eye, a drunk smile swimming over his face as he realized what woke him. His hand trembling, he reached up to cup Boadicea’s face. She pushed into the touch, nickering sweetly. 

“Hey there, Darlin’,” he murmured, eyes tired and glassy but overflowing with love, “You okay?”

When Arthur pressed small kisses to her velvety nose, all fever-soft and tired, Dutch felt a little bitterness rise in his chest. He rested his palm against Arthur’s cheek, frowning at the burn of his skin. 

“Well, the horse gets a hello and I don’t?”

Arthur blinked owlishly, clearly only then realizing that Dutch had come to visit him too. His smile only widened. His hand found Dutch’s, squeezing it softly.

“You jealous?” Arthur asked, amusement seeping into his tone, despite the weight of exhaustion.

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

“… ’s just a horse. She’s a good one….”

“ _Obviously._ ”

“Don’t worry, Dutch,” he groaned with a sloppy, tired grin, “Bo weren’t gonna let it get me.”

Boadicea pushed her nose against Dutch’s face, momentarily chasing away the sorrow that had gathered there as he stared at his boy in such a poor state. Arthur rubbed his fingers over her muzzle before drifting back to sleep.

Hosea filled the silence with a low, bemused hum, “Ain’t seen him smile ’til now”.

Dutch gripped the reins balled in his hands a little tighter. 

“That so?”

Three and a half weeks later, Arthur emerged from his tent. He stretched, as much as possible, considering the aches and pains that still pounded through him, letting the warm sunlight wash over his skin as it hadn’t in nearly a month. His emergence was met with several soft encouragements and well-wishes, as though they didn’t want to spook him back into hiding. Arthur drank in the beauty of their camp, something he sorely missed from his time laid up with nothing to see but what was visible from his cot. He stumbled— hoping the limp was temporary soreness rather than permanent injury— down to the river side, where he could see Dutch sitting beneath one of the shadier trees along the bank. 

As he drew close, he stopped short, some warm feeling settling in his stomach. Arthur stared, wide-eyed, at Dutch reading aloud with Bo curled beside him. Duke grazed nearby, uninterested in the peaceful moment between them. His fingers raked across her flank absently as he read, all three of them dappled in the sunlight that fell through the leaves. 

“Did I miss somethin’?” he asked, perhaps louder than necessary. Boadicea and Dutch, nearly synchronous, lifted their heads to look at him, similarly wide-eyed.

“I should say so,” Dutch beamed, “Your damn horse won’t give me a moment of peace!”

They both pushed to their feet, Dutch to steady Arthur, and Bo to run his pockets for treats and nuzzle every inch of him that she could reach. He ran his fingers through her mane, muttering sweet praises and greetings to her, trying to ignore the grief that welled inside of his chest when his fingers grazed her freshly-healed wounds. His other arm wrapped around Dutch’s shoulders as the older man guided him to sit.

Arthur chuckled, Bo settled in at their feet, not unlike a particularly large, particularly nosy dog. 

“You feeling better then, son?” Dutch plopped down next to Arthur, their shoulders pressed together. Arthur took a long, deep draw of the cool air rolling in off the river.

“More or less. Hosea says I can’t be up and about for another week though. He barely wants me out of bed now…" He watched as Bo rested her head between him and Dutch, an undeniable look of contentment melting over her, "So I’d be real appreciative if the two of you could keep from killing each other til then.” 

He let his head fall against Dutch, heavy with exhaustion. Dutch leafed through his discarded book to find the passage he’d left off on. 

“I think we can manage that,” Dutch hummed, absently running his hands across Boadicea’s hide, “Can’t we, Darlin’?” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If Dutch is the dad who never wanted a dog, and Bo is the dog who never wanted to be touched, then Arthur is the kid who thought he had a pet of his own until his dad swooped in and suddenly became the favorite. Poor kid. 
> 
> That's all for this one, dears! Hope you all liked it ♡


End file.
